Sight
by kurtiekins
Summary: Ever since Kurt Hummel laid his eyes upon Blaine Anderson during a fateful moment in McKinley's hallways, he's had the biggest crush on him. Over time, he's actually starting to think he's the one. There's just one problem: Blaine isn't exactly...alive.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is basically just a little experiment of mine. I honestly don't know how far this'll go, but this idea has been bugging me for a while, now, so here it is! **

**Sight: Prologue**

In a modern world filled with stereotypes that are unfortunately being distributed around constantly by the social media, an outsider's view of my life seems to be similar to a bad teen drama. You know what I'm talking about: those teenage dramas filled with a web of characters that are connected by an endless amount of love triangles, and the outspoken, loudest characters are the ones that are in center-view. The less-recognizable side characters are identified mainly only by their appearance or stereotype that's pointed out by the TV show, such as "homo", which is mine. The stories of these characters are hidden by the plotlines of the main characters who seem to make the most mistakes, and all that you know about them is their name and a couple lines of dialogue said or maybe even a small, brief act of defiance. By the time the show ends, there's bound to be at least some people who mindlessly wonder: What was their story? How'd they get to the point to where they are now, at the end of the show? However, these questions don't get answered, and they probably never will. And so, life moves on. More bad dramas come out with the same kind of patterns, and only a tiny bit of them come out to be unique.

But, no, that isn't the story of my life. In fact, that isn't the story of my life at all, or anybody else's life. My life is one full of opportune moments for fashion while on my way to stardom, and so far, that path consists of high school, Glee club, and a heavy undertone of suffering and endurance. But let's save the past for my future memoir, when I become as big as Patty LuPone some day. Let's just focus on the fact that this, now, is my story, and _I'm_ the star. Not Rachel Berry, not anybody else, just _me._ And _I'm_ the one who's telling it.

Walking in the student-raided hallways is unmistakably one of the most treacherous aspects of my high school life. Today, I'm just brushing past my "fellow" students while holding my chin up and keeping my eyes locked on the end of the hall that's just edging closer and closer with every step, ignoring the sneers and glares headed my way—just the same old routine that I've been practicing ever since freshman year. After years and years of silently observing and spiting the raging, vast majority of the school's ignorant youth that fill these very halls daily, it's easy to depict what kind of people there are in William McKinley High School:

Type A) Glee club.

Type B) Other students who value other ideas more than sheer reputation, but just stand by in spite of the constant bullying that happens around here.

Type C) The jocks, the cheerleaders, and their followers.

Type D) Blaine Anderson.

Let's start with Type A: Glee club. The members of the Glee club are my friends, actually, people who've been with me and still have ever since I came out. Although their—as I stated before—endless amount of love triangles can be highly annoying, my life wouldn't be the same without them. Being there with them is amazingly fun, and I can actually be _myself_ there. (Also, coordinating New Direction's fashion ensembles for competitions is a big plus.) Recently, however, Rachel Berry, "captain" of the glee club (as she calls it) and I have a long, bloody history as a result of clashing, undeterred egos, she and I have developed a type of….truce. (No, I'm not just saying that because I'm too embarrassed to call her my friend, what are you talking about?) But before I delve into the reasons why Rachel Berry is certainly _not_ a friend (starting with her _hideous_ reindeer sweaters), time to go to—

"How's it going, _homo?_" A terribly familiar voice boomed from the right edge of the hallway. A parade of jocks marched over their way towards me, with David Karofsky in the lead. I groaned instantly, rearing away from their disgustingly bright red letterman jackets. Type C. The jocks. AKA, the group of people that just _loves_ to make my life a living _hell._

I immediately attempted to veer away to the left side of the hallway, but it was no use. Once Dave was at the appropriate distance, his large palm roughly dug into my side and shoved me into the nearest locker. A distinct, instantaneous pain panged my right shoulder once it hit the merciless, blunt metal. I winced as I slowly slid onto the floor, gritting my teeth while they laughed boisterously and high-fived each other as they walked past. I tried to calm my breath and to ignore the bruise forming in my shoulder as the rest of the school walked on, none of them saying a word, none of them noticing.

Typical. This brings us back to Type B, those who strolled past without a word, as if there wasn't a human being suffering down here from being a victim of a long-term bullying predicament. But, that didn't really matter to them, did it?

I sighed and forced myself up, brushing myself off in the process. Once I looked up, however, I took in a deep breath as I spotted Blaine Anderson emerging from the left corner of the hallway. I held my breath as he maneuvered his way past McKinley's impassive students, his broad shoulders twisting and turning and his neck muscles flexing as he walked, his dreamy hazel eyes focused on something other than the students in front of him, like always. Instead of turning to see what he was looking at, I batted my eyelashes dazedly; more concerned at staring at him and admiring the way he sculpted his dark curls today. I silently approved his attire, clad in a black polo shirt, a red, white, and blue striped bowtie, and red, tight jeans…

Once his handsome figure disappeared from my sight, I exhaled tremulously and I suddenly realized that I pressed myself against the metal lockers as if bracing myself for the sparkling splendor of Blaine Anderson. Wait, _sparkling?_ I shook my head, trying to ignore the burning sensation in my cheeks as I promptly separated myself from the lockers and continued on my way, turning to another hallway towards my next class.

Type D. Blaine Anderson. The only reason why I placed him in a single category was because I didn't know_ where_ to put this boy, which was very unusual for me. Blaine Anderson was just so frustratingly attractive yet so bewilderingly _confusing._ When I first spotted him in the hallway at the beginning of junior year, I immediately knew that he was gay due to his carefully-gelled curls and the fact that no straight guy would make himself so polished in such a dapper way. But nobody, not one person, would ever push him around for it, let alone make fun of him. It was highly unusual for a school like McKinley. It was almost as if he were invisible. How could Blaine Anderson be invisible, though, if he stood out so much? It didn't make sense to me at all. I always got that nagging feeling that I should be jealous of him or angry because nobody even dared to touch him, but I wasn't. Instead, I was painfully curious to what his tactics were. Was there a reason for this? If so, what the hell _was_ it?

That was probably part of the reason why I was so intrigued by him. The other part, obviously, was his good looks. Maybe I was only so attracted to him because I'd developed some infatuation with guys who have dark hair and lightly tanned skin ever since my past obsession with Taylor Lautner (which I admittedly still slightly possess), or because there was an undeniable air of mystery around him. I wanted to get to know him, to learn how he was able to build up such a reputation despite being so obviously gay—and maybe, our relationship would grow to something more than just friendship.

But, this was a lot more complicated than what it appeared to be. Although I knew he was gay, I could never muster up the courage to go up and finally talk to him. And that was more than strange, because in the past, I jumped right at the opportunity of getting to know someone that I was interested in. I was never that nervous about it, but when it came to Blaine Anderson, I was ridiculously tongue-tied, and my legs were cemented to the ground whenever I saw him walk past. I was always so caught up in admiring him from afar, because that was the only thing that I _could_ do. The possibilities of repercussions were overwhelming—what would I actually say? What would I do? What if he took it badly, and thought that I was creepy and gave him unwanted attention? What would I do then?

I know; I'm an idiot. It's stupid having a huge crush on somebody who's practically a stranger—but, God, the boy was beautiful, and I liked him so much I might actually burst if I don't _do_ something. I sighed as I walked into my classroom, automatically ignoring the glances and the hushed whispers as I slid into my desk, promptly getting out what I needed for U.S. History.

I was clearly at a loss. This was undoubtedly a dilemma, and I needed an intervention. Fast.

* * *

><p>And, of course, my brain decided that watching <em>Twilight <em>with Mercedes and Rachel during another one Rachel Berry's sleepovers was timely for such an intervention.

"I need help," I blurted once we reached a scene in which Bella and Edward were delightfully eating off each other's faces. Rachel and Mercedes glanced confusedly in my direction, their attention momentarily snagged by my outburst. I sighed before adding, "With a boy." Immediately, their eyes widened simultaneously (which was unfortunately just _creepy_).

"A _boy?_" Rachel quickly scooted forward, her polished fingertips taking a firm hold on my sleeve, as if not quite believing that this situation was entirely real. I ripped my arm away as if she had burned me, and I eyed her irritably.

"Yes, Rachel, a _boy._ God, is it so strange that I need help with a _boy_ for once?"

Rachel immediately squeaked, her chocolate brown eyes almost popping out of her eyelids as she eagerly clasped her hands together. "Oh my God, oh my God! I'm so sorry, it's just, oh my God, Kurt, who _is_ he—?"

Mercedes thrust her hand out in front of Rachel, as if she was barricading Rachel from doing anything obscene. "Woah, woah, Rachel, calm down. Let the boy talk," She huffed out with a laugh, but her eyes shifted quickly toward me, her eyes twinkling with a silent curiosity. I gulped unexpectedly at the shift of attention, and I forced myself to get the words out.

"I—um, his name is Blaine Anderson," I paused for a moment, gauging their reaction. To my shock, there was strangely no flash of recognition across any one of their faces. Absolutely _none._ Rachel blinked.

"Wait, _who?_"

"Never heard of him."

I furrowed my brow, confusion immediately pulling me away from what I was initially going to do. "I—never? Dark, gelled hair, bow ties, dreamy…no?"

They both promptly shook their heads. "It doesn't matter, just continue," Mercedes urged eagerly, and I sighed, leaning back against the pillows, chewing on my lip.

"I—um, okay. Well, I…I'm in love with him, but I never actually came around to try to get to know him and I get really nervous around him and now I really don't know what to do. Simple as that," I spoke quickly, trying to ignore the rush of heat pooling in my cheeks as they both gaped at me in disbelief, presumably about how _flustered_ I so obviously was. I groaned, flailing against the pale lime sheets helplessly. Rachel visibly tried her best to compose herself as she formed a barely suppressed grin, her eyes wide.

"Awww, Kurt, you have a _crush_—!"

"Okay, okay, Rachel, let's get past the obvious and please just try to _help_ me? You both have to have _some_ kind of idea what to do," I pleaded, slowly growing more desperate as the time passed. I was starting to regret telling them in the first place, because this was already ridiculously embarrassing. To my dismay, Mercedes snorted and actually started laughing, throwing her head back in effect. I narrowed my eyes at her, annoyance nearly bursting out of me. "What?"

Mercedes finally managed to calm down, and she grinned. "No, no, it's nothing, Kurt, it's just, the great Kurt Hummel is finally completely helpless at something," She seemed to have caught sight my threatening glare, and she continued quickly, "but—okay, Kurt, to be honest, the only solution to this is to go up and talk to him, because it's the most normal of your possible options. I mean, I doubt you want to do something insane, like pretend to bump into the boy and drop your books, or slip notes into his locker, right? Just talk to him. You'll be fine," she reassured.

Rachel paused for a moment, looking deep in thought after hearing Mercedes' words before nodding in agreement, her lips pursed. "You know what, Mercedes has a point. Remember when I met Finn—during an early New Directions rendition of 'You're the One That I Want'? I pulled him into doing a little shimmy with me during our duet, and although he looked a little taken aback, I think it went well. And just look where we are now! If that turned out just _spectacular_, then I'm sure that a small thing such as just talking will spark a little something, if you're really meant to be." An eerily sweet smile stretched across Rachel's face as she brushed a pigtail away from her shoulder, as if to emphasize her point. I raised my eyebrow at her words, briefly recalling the series of frightened-puppy faces that Finn frequently wore whenever Rachel abrasively approached him last year, but I refrained from saying more. One glance at Mercedes' bemused expression, and I knew that she was thinking the same thing.

I sighed and leaned back against the pillows, letting their words—especially Mercedes'—sink in. What Mercedes' said unfortunately rang the truth in my ears. I stared up at the ceiling, silently begging the plaster above me to give me some kind of answer. Who was I kidding? Of course talking to him would be the best approach, but I was still expecting the worst.

"But what should I say?" I murmured. "I know—I can introduce myself, but what about after that? What if he takes it badly, or I'll say something that I didn't intend to, and then I'll just screw everything up—"

"Kurt, you'll never know if you don't try. Just be _you._ Introduce yourself; maybe you can induce a conversation by bringing up fashion," Mercedes suggested while Rachel nodded eagerly, and I blinked slowly, contemplating Mercedes' words.

"Using fashion as a way to a guy's heart—okay, got it. Honestly, though, I've used something like it before, but hopefully this time it'll be productive." I sighed, and laid my head against the pillows once more, staring up at the ceiling again. "Let's just hope I don't make an idiot of myself and that my mind doesn't go blank whenever I look at him, because lately it seems to be that way."

Rachel immediately _ooh_ed and _aww_ed and tittered gleefully. "_Kurt!_"

I looked back up at her, raising my eyebrows at the both of them, and immediately flushed once I saw the barely-suppressed grins on their faces. "What?"

"Damn, Kurt, you got it _bad._" Mercedes replied, clearly amused.

I groaned and sat up a little on the bed, gathering my knees up to my chest defensively. "Okay guys, really, giggling over my gigantic crush doesn't really help the fact that I might possibly ruin the chance of a _lifetime_—"

"We wish you luck, Kurt. You know that! We're just happy to see our little Kurt being so head- over-heels for someone. It's sweet! Maybe you could introduce us sometime," Rachel enthused, grasping my hand and squeezing it. I bit my lip to keep myself from spitting out a biting remark about the new nickname. Our "little Kurt"? _Really?_

I sighed, and averted my gaze to the patterns on Rachel Berry's comforter, thinking about what Rachel said about "introducing" Blaine to them eventually, if our relationship ever progresses that far. If we even _form _a relationship. I looked back up at them, hoping I didn't look as sullen as I felt. "Yeah, maybe," I smiled weakly at the both of them, getting an ominous feeling that that wouldn't be happening anytime soon.

* * *

><p>I started my hunt after Glee, the day after the slightly scarring sleepover a.k.a. my little "intervention" about whether or not I should make a move on Blaine Anderson. Which, obviously ended as, yes, I should, and the best way to do that apparently was simply by talking. I snorted. It surely sounded much, much easier than it actually was.<p>

I waited patiently until everybody had left, including Mr. Schue, who had annoyingly insisted on waiting with me until my dad came by to pick me up—God, it's not like I'm in elementary school. I was more than exhausted after our vigorous dance rehearsals for Sectionals, which was coming up soon, but I couldn't possibly have waited any longer for an opportunity like this. If I didn't do this now, I surely wouldn't be able to do it later. I sighed as I approached the door, and leaned in to peek into the hallway cautiously. I turned my head left and right, trying my best to hear or see anything that would signify human presence, more specifically, Blaine's. Dread suddenly flooded my mind. What if he immediately went home after school? God, why didn't I think of that? What am I going to do now? Put a note in his locker and ask him to meet up with me later? But that's totally suspicious and just _creepy_—God, please don't tell me this was a waste of my time.

All of a sudden, Blaine's figure soundlessly swerved from the corner of the hallway into my direction. I sucked in a breath and quickly pressed myself against the wall beside the door, a sudden nervousness filling my head. Oh God, he's right there. He's right there, alone, and there are no imposing students around him at all! This is my chance. Oh God, this is my chance, this is my chance, right here, and if I don't step into that hallway now, I won't ever be able to know what it was like to be in a relationship with Blaine Anderson. Hell, I won't ever know what it would be like _trying._

I gulped as my ears picked up the soft footsteps of Blaine Anderson, coming closer and closer to the choir room door. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best as I swung around and stepped into the hallway, only to be met by an empty corridor. I furrowed my brow, confused, before I whirled around and saw Blaine quickly starting to disappear into the shadows at the end of the hall. I inhaled sharply and ran towards him in panic; because there was no way that I was going to lose him, not now, after I had planned this for so long.

"Wait!" I called out desperately, slowing down once I was a few steps away from him. Blaine froze in his position for a moment, and I held my breath, only to see Blaine beginning to resume his walk. I furrowed my brow, the terrible feeling of horror quickly weighing down on my chest at the way he had so obviously ignored me. But instead of letting it get to me, I stepped forward once more, because there was no way I was going to let this go.

"Wait! Bl-Blaine Anderson?" I yelled out, stammering once Blaine froze again, but then slowly turned around, his expression visibly perplexed.

I took a deep breath, and then stepped closer to him, managing a half-smile. I took out my hand, holding it out in front of him. I hoped he couldn't see the way it was shaking.

"Hi, it's nice to meet you. My name's Kurt," I started, pleading with whatever was out there that Blaine couldn't hear the deafening thrum of my heartbeat. Blaine turned around fully, his beautiful eyes slowly widening. I gulped, silently berating myself for being the cause of his confusion.

_Of course he wouldn't shake your hand. You basically just marched right up to him and thrust your hand out! You're an idiot,_ I thought angrily, biting my lip to keep myself composed while analyzing his expression.

Blaine's mouth opened and closed a few times, before words finally fell out of his mouth, his voice faint.

"You can…you can _see _me?"


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yaaaay, update! Sorry it took so long, I was hit by several blocks but I managed to overcome them. Anyway, thanks so much, you guys, for viewing and reading and the some that even reviewed this story! The story officially starts now—since the last was a prologue. The length of this chapter differs drastically from the length of the prologue—a lot longer than I had intended it to be. But, no matter! **

** This story will be told mostly in Kurt's point of view, but for several vital moments it'll be switched to someone else's. Expect a lot of angst. There are two arcs to this story, (both will be in the same fic, don't worry) so I hope you enjoy both thoroughly. **

**Warning: Angst, angst, and more angst. Displays of homophobia. Minor violence (no blood). May be triggering. **

**You have been warned. Enjoy!**

**Act 1**

_**Kurt**_

**Sight: Chapter 1**

"Okay, look, Lauren, you know about whatever happens in this dreadful town. Think you can tell me about someone of the name Blaine Anderson?" I whispered furiously, starting to tap my fingers impatiently against one of the many vacant tables in the secluded section of the library. Lauren tilted her head slightly and rested her cheek on her palm, as if contemplating whether or not she should answer. She studied me thoughtfully, immediately making me feel uncomfortable about my decision to drag her into the library alone with me directly after school.

"What's in it for me, pretty boy?" Lauren finally decided to respond, raising her eyebrows as she waited for me to state her reward. I bit my lip to keep myself from letting out a scathing remark about how I should start helping her with her fashion sense beginning with the fiery death of her excessively polka-dotted tee, but I managed to remind myself about more important things.

"I have three Snickers bars, if that's what you want," I murmured, silently wondering why the hell I was making a deal with Lauren Zises that required something as ridiculous as a _Snickers bar_, but if it got me my information, it was worth it. After all, she was a much better option than Jacob Ben Israel, who jumped at every opportunity to humiliate me in front of the student body by posting about me in his ridiculously popular and _stupid_ blog. Of course, Lauren tended to throw in nicknames here and there, but they weren't too offensive (compared to what I've been called in the past) and at least she usually left me _alone._

Lauren leaned back in her chair, her gaze strangely intimidating as I rifled through my satchel and finally found the damned things. "Here," I sighed, shoving them out onto the table. God, it was like I was handing out drugs. A smirk tugged at her lips as she greedily grabbed one of them and stuffed the rest into her bag. I wrinkled my nose in distaste as she tore open the one in her hand and took a large bite into it.

"Well?" I demanded, my annoyance growing in volumes with every bite that delayed my information. She finally swallowed, her face plastered with a self-satisfied grin.

"I'm not fully equipped with information about the boy, but I saw him on a _Lima News_ article online while I was stroking my cat. Sixteen, gay, was beaten to death at some Sadie Hawkin's dance somewhere in Westerville last year. Poor thing right? Attractive, too," she replied dismissively, and I immediately pushed my chair back and stood up, shaken by the news, only knowing that I needed to go online. Now.

"Where are you going?" Lauren asked, mildly confused as she took another huge bite of her Snickers bar.

"Home. Thanks for your intel," I murmured quickly, throwing my bag over my shoulder as I rushed out of the library and into the now empty hallway, heading towards the exit doors. I pressed my lips together as I quickly pushed the doors open and walked into almost-empty parking lot, the warm mid-afternoon air only causing the unpleasant twisting and turning in my stomach to worsen. The worst possibility that was lingering in the back of my mind last night (which I frequently pushed away because of its high improbability) was suddenly turning into a reality. I snapped out of my reverie once I found my Navigator and fumbled with my keys and quickly unlocked the doors, pulling the car door on the driver's side open and shutting it harshly as I collapsed into my seat. I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as I leaned my head against my leather seat, not quite able to take this in. I exhaled shakily as memories from last night flooded back to me, for Lauren's words were frighteningly beginning to make sense.

_"I…what? Of course I can see you," I replied, arching my eyebrow confusedly. Blaine's shocked expression remained frighteningly undiminished, his eyes wide and his lips parted slightly in disbelief. _

_ "I…t-that's impossible, you're clearly…I'm…for the past year…" Blaine's gaze remained on me for a bit longer, an unreadable expression written in his eyes before he shook his head frantically, simultaneously backing away from me. I opened my mouth instantly, but no words came out, for I was too bewildered to say anything that made sense._

_ "Look, sorry, I…I gotta go, I need to…" Blaine muttered breathlessly as he turned away and darted down the hallway so quickly before I could respond coherently. My only response turned out to be a useless stammer of protest as I quickly stumbled forward and ran after him, alarmed, yelling, "Wait!" I turned swiftly to the other hallway in panic, only to see that he was gone. _

_ I stared after him in disbelief before finally letting the moment sink in. I dropped down to my knees and leaned my head against the lockers, staring at the ceiling in utmost confusion. Did I do something wrong? But he made the fact of me "seeing" him such a big deal… I furrowed my brow. With his clothes, nobody would be able to miss him. But then again, everybody at McKinley seemed to do just that. This didn't make any sense. _

_ I leaned forward and then banged the back of my head against the lockers once in effect, groaning as the memory of him rushing so frantically down the hallway just to get away from me._

_ What the hell was _that_ about?_

No, no, it was impossible.  
>Sixteen. Gay. Beaten to death.<p>

_Death._

The word reverberated throughout my mind as I started the engine and pulled out of my parking spot, quickly heading my way towards home. I let an extremely uncomfortable, painful feeling linger over my chest until I realized that that was there because I wasn't quite breathing properly. I exhaled shakily; blinking rapidly is I struggled to pay attention to the road. Of course, the most rational thing to do would've been looking him up online in the first place, but I was so utterly unconvinced that something as absurd as a ghost would explain how distant Blaine was towards other people. I'd pushed it aside and forced different thoughts into my head, thinking that it was probably just because he was insecure or simply didn't see the usual standard for fashion that was considered normal enough to avoid standing out. Weird as it sounded, it still made more sense to me than what I'd just discovered now.

This didn't make sense. This couldn't be _real_. Maybe Lauren Zises just made the whole thing up and played a huge joke on me. I let that thought settle in for a moment, taking a few deep breaths as I let it comfort me a little. I snapped out of it and then shook my head, sighing. As much as I'd like to believe that she was lying, Lauren didn't seem the type to lie about such things. She either told the truth in the most brutal way possible or didn't say anything at all. I shivered slightly, keeping my eyes glued to the road in front of me as the rest of the town blurred past. I ignored the way my fingers were shaking while gripping the steering wheel, all in fearful anticipation for what was waiting for me at home, waiting to be discovered on the computer.

* * *

><p>I stared blankly at the Google homepage before me, my hands resting unnervingly on my keyboard. <em>Lima News.<em> Blaine Anderson. Just a few words, one enter and a click away from my final answer.

Suddenly, I heard my door creak open and I whirled around in surprise, immediately seeing my dad's figure stepping carefully into room, a concerned look on his face. I gulped. I knew that face. It was that face in which his eyebrows were creased and his lips were formed into a frown which told me that he was both concerned and ready to talk about anything that was bothering me if I wanted him to, or lecture me of he thought I needed it. Great.

"You okay, Kurt?" My dad questioned, leaning slightly against the door. I inhaled sharply and idiotically let the question hang in the air for a moment before I finally forced the words out, words that I had practiced in my head so many times before.

"I'm fine, Dad."

"Really? Because to me and Carole, it doesn't look like it. You rushed into the house without warning and locked yourself up in your room for a while, and when you finally came down for dinner, you didn't say a word. Hell, even Finn's worried. It's not like you, bud." Burt remarked, gesturing to me for emphasis while staring at me intently.

"No, really, I'm fine. I guess I'm just…tired. We rehearsed a lot of dance routines at Glee today," I insisted, forcing a smile on my face that I hoped was convincing. Dad eyed me for a moment, before nodding slowly.

"Okay, if that's really all there is. Don't rush in like that and block everyone else out, though, okay? You had all of us worried there," My dad told me sternly, and I bit my lip guiltily. Of course, he was right. I was too caught up in my own problems that I forgot to pay attention to everyone else, and in turn I made everyone worried. I bit my lip even harder. That was the exact opposite that I wanted to happen, and keeping things to myself in order to prevent other people from being involved was how it usually was for years now. I didn't want to change that now.

"All right, I promise. Sorry, Dad. Tell…tell Finn and Carole I'm sorry, too." I sighed, smiling at him apologetically while twiddling nervously with my fingers, just thankful enough that he bought the "I'm-tired-and-cranky-so-I-don't-want-to-talk-to-anyone" story.

"It's okay, Kurt. I'll be sure to tell them. And, remember, you're—"

"—allowed to talk to you about anything. I know, Dad. Thank you," I interrupted him, knowing what he was going to say all too well after years and years of experience. Dad lips tilted up slightly at the corners and he nodded to me awkwardly.

"Just wanted to remind you. I'll be downstairs." Dad adjusted his baseball cap and pulled the door closed behind him (thankfully) and I sat there for a moment, listening to the sounds of his heavy footsteps as he descended down the stairs.

Sighing in relief, I swiveled around in my chair and stared at my screen for a few more moments before finally deciding that I wasn't going anywhere if I didn't do anything. So, I mustered up all the courage I could get, and typed in the needed keywords to get what I wanted. _Lima News. Blaine Anderson. Click._

I watched my computer screen turn white for a quick heartbeat with bated breath, and then immediately at the top of the page was an article from _Lima News._ Quickly, before I started staring at the screen pointlessly again, I clicked the link and watched as my computer spurred up and loaded the page that I was so scared yet anxious to see.

After a few short seconds, the page was completely done loading and displayed on the right side was a small picture that was undoubtedly of Blaine, his dark hair slicked back and his lips fixed into a tight smile. He was clad in a private-school uniform, so this was most likely his school picture. Underneath, was the caption: _Blaine Anderson, Freshman, 16. Picture taken from the Dalton Academy 2009 Yearbook. _ That was just last year. I sat there for a moment, surprised that Blaine was a year younger than I was, but then I quickly dismissed the thought. I took a deep breath as I scanned the article on the left.

**16-year-old boy beaten to death at a school dance in Westerville, Ohio**

_November 8, 2009, 10:00 A.M._

_ShareThis | Print Story | E-Mail Story_

_ Blaine Anderson, freshman at Dalton Academy High School, 16, from Westerville, Ohio, was reported dead at 6:05 A.M. today after an emergency call from a student on her way to school. Police reports say that the events that lead to his unfortunate death took place at 9:45 P.M., just outside the gymnasium where the school's Sadie Hawkins dance was taking place. Reports also say that he was attending it with his friend, but his friend did not befall the same fate despite taking nearly-fatal injuries to the head and ribs. Three seniors were arrested today at 7:00 A.M. for the attempted murder of Blaine Anderson, their reason being of his homosexuality._

_ His funeral will be held on Saturday, November 14 at 12:15 P.M._

I zoned out, my vision blurring the text in front of me after I finished reading the text. Shock was hanging mercilessly in the air around me. I couldn't hear anything besides the whirring of my computer and the heavy silence, I couldn't feel, I couldn't speak.

He was dead.

Blaine Anderson was really, really dead, and what I had seen in the hallway yesterday was truly a ghost.

He was _killed._ Because three seniors so passionately hated his _homosexuality. _

I shuddered, shoving the thought away as leaned back in my chair after solidly staring at the screen with my mouth hanging open for a few moments. However, I was unable to push away a thought that was prodding the back of my brain, briefly imagining the possibility of something like _that _happening to me, what it must've felt like for him… I sighed shakily, rubbing my temples roughly, as if trying to get rid of something completely insane that was possibly something that was building up in my head.

No, no, though, I wasn't hallucinating, I surely wasn't, I'd seen Blaine Anderson with my own eyes, heard him speak, and harbored that crush on him for nearly a _year_ now—

My head shot up for a moment once I suddenly thought of something strange.

Wait. How…how had I known that his name was Blaine Anderson anyway? He was dead, and there was no possible way that I could've known.

I let that thought remain suspended in my head for a few moments and then I scoured my brain for details, wondering, terrified—_grasping_ at straws here for any explanation for this strange horror story that was now suddenly unfolding itself upon me. My head suddenly started to ache and that's when I realized that I must've been thinking about this for at least an hour. With an exasperated sigh, I slid off my chair and collapsed onto my bed, groaning into my plush, dark red covers.

This was useless. I was—I was surely _freaked _out about how I mysteriously knew his name even when it wasn't even—_shouldn't _even be possible, but now I just had to accept that I had very little to go on. Maybe I'd finally answer this question for myself later, when I finally start to figure out things.

I propped my head up on my hands, blowing an invisible wisp of hair away from my face. _If_ I figure out things. Wait, did I just decide for myself that I was going to talk to Blaine again?

I sighed and rolled around until I was on my back, and decided to peruse the patterns on the ceiling. I mean, I was bound to see him again, but I'm a bit freaked. Clearly, so is Blaine, considering his reaction when I first approached him.

I bit my lip and slowly curled myself into a ball, bunching the blankets around me as I turned to the side. I looked blankly at the bookshelf in front of me. It consisted of rows and rows of books I've read before, but nothing, nothing that I've watched or read would've prepared me for something as upsetting as this—that my first lasting crush, one that I was a bit more confident about compared to the others—was on a _ghost._ All my hopes about forming a relationship with Blaine Anderson—us being _together_— suddenly became useless.

Together, we were impossible all along.

* * *

><p>I trudged through the same old hallway the next afternoon, feeling as if I was inherently set in a bad mood ever since I had to change into another outfit <em>again<em> after being slushied for the second time and the school day hadn't even ended yet (One more period to go, Kurt, you can do this.). God, did Azimo really have to gather up all his gang mates to throw a multitude of ice-cold slush at me in a butthurt attempt to take revenge against me for what I said about his _hair?_ (He called my hair "a faggy swirl"—yes, _really_—and I promptly replied that it's called _coiffed_ and that at least my hair didn't resemble washed-up ants on a scalp.)

Karofsky, unsurprisingly, was one of those who'd joined Azimo in his little revenge plan. However, as much as I despised him, much less looking at him, I couldn't help but notice how his actions and his expressions were tinged with more ferociousness than usual. The way he grinned at me with drawn eyebrows as he pulled his arm back, ready to throw the slush in my face, the way he assessed me before doing so like I was a piece of meat put up for sale… I shuddered at the memory, and the memories of other times in which he did something similar suddenly came back to me. Most of the time we'd pass in the hallways and he'd shove me into the lockers without so much a glance, but sometimes I felt that unmistakable feeling that someone was watching me. I remember turning back self-consciously only to briefly catch Karofsky's gaze in my direction—and once we caught eye contact, he'd swiftly turn away and stomp down the hallway, as if nothing had ever happened. Was he imagining how soiled my clothes would be after slushying them, the humiliation on my face? Was he planning his next move, addicted to the satisfaction he received from tormenting me?

I sighed shakily as I weaved my way through the students to my locker, quickly adjusting my lock to its combination and swinging it open. I never understood bullies. I couldn't imagine how someone else's pain could be _pleasure _to another person—

"Hey!"

I jumped in shock, my head wringing to the side to face my intruder. _Oh. _

"Hi, Rachel," I sighed, feeling my muscles relax. "God, you scared me."

Rachel laughed softly, combing her fingers through her hair once while smiling apologetically at me.

"Sorry, it's just I've been looking for you all day and now I finally have you so…I got a bit excited."

I leaned back against my locker, eyeing her eager, wide eyes and her child-like pink dress, topped off with a pink bow at the waistline. I raised my eyebrows.

"Well, what are you so excited about? If you're seeking my approval of your outfit again, I must honestly say that you still manage to look like a toddler—"

"What?" she gasped, glancing down at her outfit, before quickly composing herself and raising her head up high. "Okay, Kurt, that's not the point, I'm _not _asking for your input this time, I was just wondering…" She inched closer, her voice hushed. I reared back slightly while watching her eyes roving around us as if she was about to spill some large secret.

"…I was wondering if anything has happened, y'know, with Blaine."

I froze. "Blaine?" I whispered, my voice coming out more high-pitched than I intended it to be.

She furrowed her dark brows at me. "Yes, _Blaine!_ You know, the dreamboat who you were raving about so passionately two days ago—"

"I know who he is, Rachel—!"  
>"Okay, so answer my question!" she hissed impatiently, crossing her arms and staring up at me.<p>

I gulped, my heart roaring in my ears as I tried to come up with a coherent excuse, something other than, "Oh, turns out, Blaine's a ghost and so we can't exactly be together."

"I—he—he transferred out." The words quickly fell out of my mouth before I could think about it. Rachel froze, her eyes wide as she uncrossed her arms, clearly taken aback.

"_Transferred?"_ she repeated, her expression screaming disbelief.

"Yes—transferred. I-I know, I didn't exactly expect it either—"

Rachel's expression saddened, her mouth resembling a pout. Her eyebrows eased as she gazed at me sympathetically, the amount of emotion in her eyes quickly beginning to scare me.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt! This must be such a shock to you," she sighed, resting a hand on my arm. I fought the urge to rip my arm away. I forced out a sigh, feigning an expression of dismay.

"Yeah, it is. Oh, well," I sighed for a lengthier amount of time, hoping that it was convincing enough to Rachel. Luckily, it was working.

"You know what, Kurt; I'll be the one to break it to Mercedes. It's okay, you don't have to relive it again! You'll find someone soon, Kurt, I know you will," she nodded determinedly.

I smiled weakly at her, a small part of me appreciating her notion. "Thanks, Rachel."

"You're welcome!" she beamed, and suddenly, the bell rang throughout the school, signaling the start of the next period.

I quickly grabbed my books and slammed my locker shut. "Okay well, we both gotta go, so—"

"See you at Glee, Kurt!" Rachel waved back at me, already halfway down the hall. I stared at her, surprised for a moment, before quickly getting myself back together and rushing down to my next class.

I sighed. Looks like Rachel and Mercedes aren't going to have the pleasure of hearing any love stories from me anytime soon.

* * *

><p>Glee was barely any relief from my dreary school day. Hell, my <em>whole day<em> was torture. I sang along unenthusiastically as Will conducted our voice exercises, thinking for the majority of the time about how lucky I was to dodge Karofsky in the hallway on my way over to the choir room before he could do anything rash.

I sighed as the rest of the club dispersed into the hallway. Is that how I was going to spend the rest of my high school life? Cowering in fear, wondering when somebody was going to make some move against me?

"Waiting for your dad again, Kurt?" I shook out of my thoughts and found Mr. Schue glancing at me as he reached over the piano stool to grab his satchel. I bit my lip, wishing he would just go.

"Yeah. I'll just…I'll turn off the lights when I leave, Mr. Schue, don't worry," I reassured him, hoping that enough would convince him to just _leave._

Mr. Schue nodded. "Alright, Kurt. See you tomorrow!" He waved back at me as he stepped out into the hall, his footsteps eerily echoing in the hallway as the sound slowly diminished, followed by the sound of opening and closing doors.

I forced myself up and grabbed my own bag, taking that as my cue to leave. I stepped down from the choir room's usual rows of seats and made my way across the room, flicking the lights off before stepping into the hallway. I sighed, leaning back against the wall. I just needed to stay here for a moment, have one moment to myself while nobody was here. Just one moment…

"Kurt?" A voice suddenly called out from the edge of the hall, and I jolted, my eyes immediately snapping open as they quickly found the source of the all-too-familiar voice.

And there he was.

Blaine stood there, notably keeping his distance. He was a couple meters away, at most, but he was certainly trying to get my attention. His lips were parted slightly, and his eyes were dark. His form was rigid, and his gaze froze me on the spot.

I felt my mouth open and close a few times, the words on the tip of my tongue but failing to come out.

"Look, I—" He shifted nervously, his red polo crinkling around his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry about…sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to run off like that, I just…"

"I-It's fine!" I squeaked, the words suddenly spilling from my mouth. My heart ran quickly and my head was spinning. I was talking to a ghost. A _ghost._ "I mean, I was, I was surprised too, I mean, I never—I thought you were—you seemed, you seemed alive, and I never expected you to be _dead,_ to be a _ghost_—" The words came out harsher than I expected, and I stopped immediately once I caught sight of his expression.

On Blaine's face, I saw the most heartbreaking expression I've ever seen on another person. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he stared at me, his brow furrowed, looking like I had just struck him. Suddenly, it looked like tears were about to spill from his eyes at any given moment. I did something wrong. _Shit._ I hurt him. _I hurt him._ What have I done? The show of vulnerability lasted for a split second, before he visibly steeled himself, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Okay, I-I get it, I-I get how this is. I'm sorry I wasn't able to reach your expectations, Kurt, because I'm not necessarily _alive _and this freaks out the both of us—and this—any _friendship_ won't work, so I'll just _leave._" he snapped, his words coming out in a rush. He walked away once again, his footsteps soundless against the floor. I stared after him, speechless, as he disappeared down the hallway, too shocked to even yell after him, to plead with him that _no, I didn't mean it like that, please come back. _

_ I'm sorry._

* * *

><p>It's almost funny how quickly your day can go downhill.<p>

Although I've gone on and on about how my life has a heavy undertone of suffering, there was once a time when I wasn't as different from the others around me. When I was welcomed by everyone around me. I had friends, I played with other kids, and other adults didn't have a problem with me. I was a happy child. For a short time, I was happy, happy for who I was.

Then, my mother passed away.

I remember those days clearly. It was when my father became the most important figure in my life. I remember sobbing into my father's jacket most of the time, breathing in his comfortably familiar scent, him holding my hand as I stared painfully at her grave, wondering _why._ And from then on, I learned to support myself and my dad little by little, by preparing meals, even when my arms ached from being shoved around as I started growing up. As I matured, kids started to learn from society the protocol when looking at other people, judging them, assessing them for who they were, for who they seemed to be. It didn't take long for me to realize that I was different, and that my kind of different was the most unwelcome. From isolation to getting thrown into a dumpster, I was bullied endlessly. Recently, however, I began to accept myself after hating who I was for so long. I became proud, proud that I liked boys, and began wearing clothing that I longed to wear for years, but had been so afraid of wearing because they would've so blatantly put my sexuality on for display. But now, I didn't care. After joining Glee club, after learning how to accept myself, I felt happier than I had ever felt in _years._

However, the bullying increased, and though the ice-cold slushies were endlessly stinging to my eyes, I never failed to keep my composure. I mean, I've had my days. I was still progressing forward, well, until David Karofsky decided to intervene and worsen my days at McKinley High by a hundred fold, and today was by far the worst of the worst. The incident with Blaine yesterday had merely been a prelude.

It all started with a text. I was walking down the hallway past the other students, minding my own business, when suddenly my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out mindlessly, expecting it to be from Mercedes, or someone from Glee, but no.

From: _4196738902_

November 3rd, 2011 10:12 A.M.

_ Fag._

My teeth dug into my bottom lip and my head instinctively shot up as I searched the hallway with wide eyes, wondering how the hell some homophobe got my number. I cursed under my breath and shoved my phone back in my pocket and continuously ignored the string of vibrations in my pocket while I walked down the hallways with wary, strained steps, the image of the text heavily imprinted in my brain.

_Fag._

Later on, I decided to check my phone just in case anybody else besides that number texted me at all. Save for a few from Mercedes, the majority of them were from the same number. Each consisted of a different insult pertaining to my sexuality, and right when I was reading the last one (which provided a colorful pattern of curse words), blunt nails suddenly dug into my shoulder and a strong hand hurled me into the nearest person.

I yelped as I collided with a girl, notably a Cheerio, her auburn ponytail thrashing out haphazardly as all of our books slipped from our hands and skidded down the floor. I winced as I struggled to get up, a terribly familiar laugh resounding throughout the hallway. Karofsky smirked at me as he walked past, rubbing his palms together as he yelled back, "Did you get my texts, loser?"

I dug my fingernails into my palms as I stared after him dumbly. Of course, _of course_ it was him, of course _he_ was the one who was sending all those texts—

The girl next to me groaned as she gathered all her books. She cupped the side of her mouth as she yelled angrily at the retreating figure of Karofsky, "Watch where you're shoving that _homo,_ Karofsky!" Karofsky raised his arm and waved it off dismissively as he turned down the hall, disappearing in the crowd of students.

I sucked in a deep breath and quietly took each one of my books and slid them into my arms as the girl stood up and brushed off her uniform. I glanced back at her once and I drew back immediately once I saw the look on her face. Emblazoned on it was clear disgust as her upper lip curled back in a snarl, ready to hurl a scathing remark at me. I held my breath, and barely had any time to prepare myself.

"Get lost, _freak._" She cast one last look at me, seething with distaste as she swiftly turned around and stomped down the hallway, her curled ponytail bouncing profusely behind her as the bypassing students barely took notice of my sprawled and disoriented state on the floor.

I managed to stand up sullenly, pressing my lips into a thin line as I raggedly brushed the dust off my clothes, persevering to get myself back together. I kept my eyes set on the dull, polished concrete floor of the McKinley hallway, on the shuffling feet of the mix of students ranging from freshmen to seniors, all of whom I barely even recognized.

And once again, I went unnoticed.

* * *

><p>I was shoved around for about fifteen times in the next two hours, like some rag doll that was far too disgusting for anybody to hold in their grasp for too long. My shoulders ached and throbbed as I took long, sluggish strides down the hallways between each period, and now, towards the cafeteria.<p>

I stumbled out into the din of the cafeteria, and then sighed as I fought my way into line, grabbing a beige lunch tray in the process. _Just a couple more hours, Kurt. You'll be fine. You'll be _fine.

But of course, the mantra rarely ever had any effect on me. I was growing tired, and I knew it. Tired of the incessant sneers and shoves, tired of Karofsky always on my tail, tired of having to look over my shoulder to keep watch for him. As if I was purposefully being hunted down. I glanced around as I shuffled along in line, my eyes gazing past multitudes of posters scattered across the dark brown walls and rows and rows of glossy, dull lunch tables sporting the same color as this tray.

I finally slid over to where the kitchen ladies were handing out the lunch special today, and grimaced once one of the older ones placed a bowl of pasta onto my tray, completely swathed in cheese. "Thank you," I murmured, nodding in mild appreciation as I veered off from the line, humming to myself as I made my way over to the Glee table, hoping that lunch and Glee rehearsal would be better than what the rest of the day had laid out for me.

But, however, soon enough, a crowd of jocks were headed my way, aiming to exit the cafeteria. A feeling of great unease filled me, though, once I saw that Karofsky was in the lead. He whistled as his steps drew closer, and I bit my lip harshly and kept my eyes glued to my lunch, trying my best to speed past and mentally prepare myself for any jeers that were to be forced onto me. His whistling was slowly becoming louder and louder to my ears, and I became dizzy with fear and anticipation and the din of the cafeteria was blurred by the sound of my racing heart as we neared each other. _You'll be fine, Kurt. Just a few more steps, a few more steps and he'll be right past you, no harm done—_

Karofsky's hand thrust out into my vision once we were at shoulder level and suddenly I found my tray empty, my pasta bowl gripped by his hand and almost immediately the face of the bowl collided with my forehead. I yelped in pain and I quickly shut my eyes as something wet and warm slid down the side of my face and a liquid that was undoubtedly cheese and angel pasta dribble down into my shirt—_my shirt,_ and slowly made its way down my stomach. I gasped once the pressure against my face was lifted, and I quickly wiped my eyes and stared incredulously at Karofsky, who had just carefully peeled away the bowl from my face. The cafeteria, once a loud, bustling mix of different voices, was now distilled to a deafening silence, and the only sound in the air was Karofsky's friends laughing and high-fiving each other, patting Karofsky on the back, for having done such an accomplishment.

"Oops, my hand slipped," he grinned, his eyebrows arched as he made his way past me, his friends yelling out their praise of I-knew-you-could-do-its and I was left standing there, in the middle of the cafeteria, soiled with cheese and pasta on my face and body, with all eyes on me.

It was as if a stone had begun to crush me, rendering me unable to move. I suddenly realized I was trembling. Everything around me was a blur once familiar people rushed by my side, Mercedes and Rachel in the front, asking me in panicked voices if I was okay, and insisting that they drag me to the girl's bathroom. The boys stood behind them in shock, helpless and not quite believing the situation as the rest of the girls, Rachel and Mercedes in the lead, made their way through the aisle. Shakily, I let them steer me through the cafeteria, my eyes switching back and forth across the area, briefly making eye contact with each of the people staring at me with cautious, unmoving eyes, their mouths not moving, not making one sound.

We burst out into the hallway, our quick and frantic footsteps echoing against the walls as the girls' tentative hands pushed me into the girls' bathroom door, and I was suddenly rushed into a sink. I looked up to the mirror above and I saw myself staring back at me, my eyes wide and shaken and my forehead and face splotched with cheese and bits of pasta that trailed into and over my shirt. Tremulously, I switched on the sink and watched the tap fill my palms before splashing the cold water onto my face, rubbing the cheese and pasta hastily as frantic hands dabbed away the pasta off my shirt.

"I can't _believe _Karofsky did that to you, Kurt—!"

"Do you have extra clothes? I can get them for you—"

"Kurt, you need to tell a teacher about this!"

"Kurt, Brittany and I are in the Cheerios, so if you ever need us to get all up in Karofksy's ass—"

"_Girls!_" I yelled, a headache quickly beginning to form along with my ever-increasingly spinning mind. The chatter in the bathroom skidded to a stop as I gripped the counter tightly, the water still running. First, I answered Tina's offer to grab my clothes for me by quickly giving her the combination number of my locker, and out the door Tina went.

"And second of all—" An inexplicable rage coursed through me as I splashed water onto my neck now, desperately trying to erase every single trace of cheese and pasta. "—I appreciate what you girls are doing but if you're convinced that telling a teacher about this will immediately stop things like this from happening, it _isn't_, since things like this have been going on for so long—"

"How long have they been going on, Kurt?" interjected Quinn, her voice calm and serious compared to the shocked and absolutely frazzled looks on the rest of the girls' faces.

I paused for a moment, and raked my hand through my hair as I switched the sink off. I stood up a little straighter, keeping my eyes glued to the porcelain sink.

"If—if you mean with Karofsky, for…for a couple of weeks now." A collective amount of gasps filled the room and I bit my lip, feeling Santana's cold, determined stare burning into my back.

"Look, Porcelain, if the teachers can't do anything, I certainly can go up to Karofsky and threaten the crap out of him—"

"—And everything is just going to _stop?_" I interrupted, swiftly whirling around to stare hard at Santana, who was leaning onto her side and crossing her arms.

"Do you really just expect that he's going to leave me alone after _anything_ you say? That he isn't going to push me around even more for telling you about what's going on, that he isn't going to comment on how much of a wimpI am for asking people to protect me—"

Tina burst into the bathroom, her arms full of my clothes. Everybody turned to stare at her, but Santana kept her eyes glued on me, her dark brows furrowed. Tina hesitated for a moment before handing the clothes out to me, her eyes warily scanning the room around her.

"I—did I come in at a bad time?"

"No, Tina, you came in just at the right time. Thank you," I muttered, and quickly grabbed the clothes from her hands and locked myself into a stall, throwing my soiled shirt and vest over my head and starting to unzip my skinny jeans.

Everything was silent for a long moment before Rachel's voice broke the quietness, the sound of it soft and defeated, but still filled with hope—and when was it ever not?

"…Kurt, please, if there's anything we can do…"

"There isn't." I cut in bitterly, sliding the sleeves of my thankfully clean button-up over my arms. I fumbled with my buttons, quickly fastening them as the words were tumbling out of my mouth with full force. "This has been going on for weeks. Please, tell me why I should put hope in the teachers when nobody, nobody has noticed—not even _you_ guys." There was silence on the other side of my stall.

"Guys, really, if I'm going to keep on going to McKinley, I'm just going to have to endure this." I stuck my legs into my tight jeans, silently cursing how impossibly difficult it was to get into them. I zipped them up and tugged my red pea coat over my shoulders. I quickly gathered up my used clothes into my arms and effectively pushed open the stall door. I stepped out amid the rest of the girls, some of their faces solemn, some of them looking painfully helpless and at a loss for what to do. I averted my gaze from Mercedes'—for hers was an exemplary one of helplessness. I suddenly felt tired, not only physically, but tired of _everything_—tired of having to explain myself, and way too exhausted to get my hopes up for a stop to this endless bullying.

"Guys, it's…it's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do. But if you really, really want to help me," I aimed this especially at Santana, my voice coming out quiet with the genuine plea for them to please, _please _listen to me, "don't waste your time on trying to put a stop to something that can't be."

I made my way over to the bathroom door, keeping my eyes trained on its dark maroon color and away from the stares headed my way that were sure to weaken my resolve if I looked at them. But, once I grasped the door handle and pushed the door open to a crack, Mercedes' trembling, hurt voice caused me to stop.

"You don't have to do this alone, Kurt."

I bit my lip harshly then, my vision blurring in front of me as a hot wetness rushed to my eyes. Unable to respond, I pushed open the door farther and walked away as the bell indicating the end of lunch and the start of the next period rang, leaving the rest of the girls and my best friend behind.

* * *

><p>Thankfully, the girls seemed to follow my wishes because Mr. Schue barely paid attention to me in the duration of Glee Club. At the end of it, he only waved to me as he walked out of the choir room and into the hallway to exit the school doors, already used to my new routine to stay behind everybody else and to have a few moments' time for myself. I was walking past the lockers, on my way out, however, when I heard an unmistakable, muffled plea break the eerie silence of the apparently empty school.<p>

_"Help!" _

I stopped immediately in my steps, my eyes wide as I quickly whirled around and rushed to turn around the corner into the next hallway, alertly doing my best to find the source of the voice as a few more pleas made their way to my ears, followed by several _slam_s which suspiciously sounded too much like someone being slammed into a locker. Luckily, however, I didn't have to run for too long because the voice was at its loudest behind the door to the boys' locker room.

Without a single thought and only motivated by my instinctive sense to _help_, I pushed open the door and it was almost as if my heart skidded to a stop.

There, in front of me, was the familiarly burly figure of Karofsky holding up a scrawny, freshman-looking boy by his neck and punching repeatedly into his stomach. The boy had messy, streaked blonde hair and there were tears streaking down his face as he struggled to get free, his body continuously colliding with the lockers with each horrific slam.

I clenched my fists, and suddenly feeling brave despite my reeling mind, I yelled out roughly, _"Hey!"_

Karofsky immediately stiffened and he let go of the boy's neck, resulting in him sliding down the locker doors, free of his grasp. The boy took it as his cue to leave, scrambling up for his books and stumbling past me without a single word of thank you. I didn't let it get to me, however, for I was too distracted by the fact that I was in a very, very dangerous situation.

We were alone.

Karofsky let out an indignant cry and slammed his fists against the lockers as an obvious result, and he turned to me swiftly with a clear expression of rage.

"What the _fuck_, Hummel—_"_

"Why do you take pleasure in beating up innocent people?" I hissed angrily, all of the feelings that I've been bottling up for the past couple of days now suddenly bubbling up to the top, ready to blow.

"_Innocent?_ Why, he stole my lunch money—"

"But that doesn't mean you have to _beat him up_ over it!" I shouted, seething with anger. Karofsky's face scrunched up in frustration before he managed a reply, his fists clenched tightly.

"Is this about what happened at lunch today?" huffed Karofsky, and I clenched my own fists, anger and determination quickly coursing through my body. I was not going to let Karofsky torture me anymore, I was_ not_ going to let him think that I was just going to let him _do_ this, that I was perfectly fine with what he was doing. Me being_ fine_ was the falsest thing in the world right now.

"Well, maybe it is, Karofsky, but I have enough sense to stop someone from beating up another person when I get the chance—"

"Just stop being so _gay!_ If-if you're just so tired of me doing all this shit to you—" Karofsky's words came out harsh and cold, and everything, _everything _that I had bottled up, suddenly exploded.

"_Excuse_ me? You think you can _change _who I am? Do you really think that beating me up and verbally torturing me can cause me to suddenly change who I'm attracted to? You know, you jocks act like you have so much power, being the popular kids, maintaining the status quo like some _dogs_ guarding something completely_ useless_ because you know what? You're so intent on keeping up your reputation that one day you'll graduate and you'll realize how a complete waste of time that was, because people will _always _be different than you are and you won't be able to change a thing about them and those people will end up living happier lives than you will ever live, because they're willing to open their eyes and not spend the majority of their lives spreading hate—"

Karofsky slammed his fist into the locker, his face glowing with absolute rage. "Don't you _dare_ tell me who I am, Hummel—"

"—and maybe your little power quest worked on some other people, but not me. I am _not_ afraid of you, and I never will be."

"Don't—" Karofsky suddenly raced towards me, "—push—", roughly clawed at the collar of my shirt, "—me, Hummel!" and then slammed me against the lockers. I gasped at the ache that suddenly panged my back, and I struggled to find my breath, my heart racing and fear clouding my mind but I was determined to keep on talking.

"And you know why? Because no matter what you do, no matter what or who this society deems acceptable, it's not going to make me change who I am. I'm not going to let people block me from achieving my dreams, because I know for a fact that I can, because I'm not ignorant like you, and whether you like it or not I'm gay and I'll _always_ be gay—"

My words were suddenly swallowed by the lips that suddenly slammed against mine and I immediately struggled to get free, pushing and clawing frantically at his torso, shutting my eyes tight. This wasn't—couldn't be happening, and regret suddenly filled my head faster than it ever did, regret that I ever opened my eyes, and I prayed and begged for whatever was out there that everything would just stop, for an answer to why the hell _Karofsky _was kissing me—

_SLAM._

The pressure against my lips was quickly lifted after the loud noise and I gasped for air, my eyes flying open to Karofsky staring in shock to what was to my side. I turned my head, and I froze once I saw Blaine standing a few feet away, his fist clenched against the locker that he just slammed shut. His eyes were stone cold, with an anger that the only thought in my mind was to _run._ But I couldn't move.

"What was—what was that? Who's there?" He bellowed, glancing around, his fists still clenched in my shirt and his eyes wild, as if the last thing he wanted to happen was somebody finding out his deepest and darkest secret. I suddenly remembered now that Karofsky had no way of seeing Blaine.

Blaine sped forward and slammed shut every open locker in his path, and each time Karofsky jolted and he quickly let go of my shirt, dropping me harshly against the floor. I winced in pain as Blaine continued to punch each locker door like an adamant, raging machine, moving closer and closer towards us.

"I—what the fuck?" Karofsky cried and stumbled out of the room, his footsteps ragged and clumsy as he ran across the hallway. The frantic sounds of his running continued for a while before the sound of the exit doors opening and roughly slamming shut ended its pattern.

I sat there, my eyes wide as I struggled with my breath. I looked over at Blaine, who I realized was now beside me. His face was contorted with anger until he looked at me, and his expression softened.

He knelt beside me, and moved his hand out hesitantly towards me before suddenly stopping and then shoving his hand behind him, as if he was about to help me up but remembered that that was impossible.

"…Are you okay?" He murmured, his voice soft.

I surprised myself by barking out a laugh, and tears suddenly started falling out of my eyes and I found myself shaking uncontrollably. Then, I fully realized how completely _scared _I was. My gladness overpowered my feelings of confusion, for despite being so overwhelming confused about everything, I was just glad that I was all right. Right now, I was safe. I continued to smile up at him though, despite the fact that I could barely see him because I was currently being blinded by my tears.

"Yeah. I am, now."

At that moment, an unspoken truce formed between Blaine and me. And from then on, because of some _crazy_ twist of fate, we became friends.

**A/N: There you go! Wow, finally finishing this took a heavy load off my shoulders. If any of you were displeased at the lack of Blaine, do not fret! There will be lots of Blaine in the next chapter, and lots will be explained (especially if you're a little confused about what he was able to do in that last scene). Anyway, I'm very excited to write the next chapter! Any thoughts about this one? :)**


End file.
